


Illusions Domain

by DarkerSilence



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Training, Biting, Bondage belts, Bottom Will Graham, Butt Plugs, Dom Hannibal Lecter, Dom/sub, Established Dom/sub dynamic, Established Relationship, Explicit for later chapters?, Fisting, Frottage, Hannibal in a leather harness, I have a kink for being called Sir, Kinky wrestling, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Shattering teacups, Sub Will Graham, marks of ownership, tease & denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-18 07:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16990920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkerSilence/pseuds/DarkerSilence
Summary: Without even a glance to Will’s immobile figure in the doorway, Hannibal speaks up while he arranges the furniture around. “Back so soon, aren't you fast? Wait for me against the wall, handsome, I'm almost ready,” he says nonchalantly.





	1. Chapter 1

Will throws his keys carelessly on the bench by Hannibal’s front door. Well, _his_ front door, if he’s honest. Theirs. He’s been here for long enough that he should probably stop thinking of this place as Hannibal’s place, of the neighbourhood as Hannibal’s neighbourhood, of their bed as Hannibal’s bed. At the same time, he conflates; he has come to be seldom able to differentiate himself from Hannibal, because his own body and mind also feel like Hannibal’s, so really, it’s not his fault he’ll always think about the house as Hannibal’s house.

He toes off his shoes and arranges them carefully by the door; he likes the order, it’s a satisfying contrast next to the however many pairs haphazardly kicked around his house back in Wolf Trap. Will’s brain never slows down enough to take the time to arrange his shoes neatly. 

Hannibal sent him to run errands, said he had to work on stuff while Will would be out. But Hannibal, in an effort to ensure that Will wouldn’t forget about him (or so does he rationalise, as if Will ever could), well. He sent him out with a little extra. He’d taken a few minutes out of his day to work Will up enough to give him one of the plugs he’d bought for him, and he does that when he wants Will to be ready for him when he’s ready for Will, so. Will felt it with every step while he was out, and to say he’s eager to be home would be an understatement. So he wastes no time putting away his purchases and heads to the study where he can hear Hannibal shuffling around.  


He stops dead in his tracks when he takes in the nature of Hannibal’s “work.” The mahogany desk, usually throning in the middle of the place, is pushed flat against the wall, by the window. The couch is pushed back too, and whereas they usually can walk behind it, they can no longer. Even the reading chair and the lamp have been moved to create space, and Will can’t help but to notice that the only available wall space that isn’t made inaccessible by various pieces of furniture is the bare area by the bookshelf, where Hannibal, forever ago it seems, pushed him and gave him his first real orders, where they first played with each other. Needless to say that space means something, a lot, to Will. He hopes it holds meaning for Hannibal, too.

Without even a glance to Will’s immobile figure in the doorway, Hannibal speaks up while he arranges the furniture around. “Back so soon, aren't you fast? Wait for me against the wall, handsome, I'm almost ready,” he says nonchalantly.

Will frowns, but complies nonetheless. He strides across the room, taking in his unusual surroundings, a thousand and one scenarios and memories unfolding through his mind, things they have done by that wall, things they haven’t. He automatically crosses his wrists behind himself when he rests his back on the cold surface, just the way he’s used to, just the way he knows Hannibal likes.

“The other way around. Face the wall, darling. I don’t want you to look around more than you already did. Forehead to the wall.” His voice stern and controlled.  


There’s no reason for Will not to listen. He feels his heart speed at the accusation that he looked around too much, but there was nothing much to look at, nothing specific, was there? Plus, he didn’t know that he wasn’t allowed, so he can’t be punished for a rule he didn’t know he was breaking, can he? He turns around nonetheless, keeps his wrists crossed behind his back. He rests his forehead to the unforgiving surface and closes his eyes. He tries not to guess what Hannibal is doing on the sole account of the sounds he makes out behind him, but everything becomes quiet suddenly – did he leave? Is he simply immobile and looking at him? Will has nothing to go on, and he feels very exposed, with nothing to defend himself, at Hannibal’s mercy despite the fact that realistically, they haven’t even really started anything yet.  


After what feels like an eternity in regards to the whirlwind of thoughts in his skull, Will hears movement again, approaching steps. So he’d been left alone. He feels a shiver down his spine, from anticipation, and the thrill of having no idea what’s coming. He knows Hannibal, knows that he went to get something, but he has no way of knowing what.

What comes first is the grip of fingers in his hair, so tight, tangling in his curls, and dragging up from his scalp, forcing a soft yelp past Will’s lips in surprise. He can’t escape, what with the wall in front of him and the death grip on his curls keeping him forcefully in place. Next comes the warmth of Hannibal’s body, slamming into him, pressing tight behind him, trapping Will’s arms between them and forcing him flat against the wall. Skin on skin – Hannibal is shirtless against his arms. He’s radiating heat in waves. Will gets Hannibal’s free hand snaking under his shirt to grab his hip hard enough to leave a vivid handprint. He’s utterly unable to move. His breathing is ragged already from the roughness. He whimpers when Hannibal starts rotating his hips behind him, grinding up against his helpless body, and Will pants. He’s already feeling the rush of blood to the pits of his stomach, arousal and adrenaline coursing through his veins. His head might be confused, but his body knows exactly how to respond to these forceful actions. Every movement of Hannibal’s body is shifting the plug he’s wearing infinitesimally.

Hannibal’s hands don’t stay immobile for long, however. He’s soon pulling back to grab Will’s crossed wrists, and without warning, bends his elbows, yanks his hands up his back; Will is helpless, in this position, Hannibal’s grip is tight and he has no upper-body strength to defend himself, not like this. He tries to take a deep breath before Hannibal’s rough voice interrupts his train of thoughts.

“Your muscles are so tense, handsome. You must be so desperate, having to go out knowing I want you open and waiting for me to be done working, aren’t you?” Hannibal drawls against his neck. Will lets out a sound halfway between moaning and whining.

Hannibal pushes his torso flat against Will’s back, solid, strong, and traps his arms between their bodies. He snakes around Will’s waist, going straight for the button of his jeans, wasting no time in unbuttoning them and pushing them down his legs. Will is trying not to focus on the brief but welcome feeling of friction against his crotch when his pants are dragged down.

“Where did your resistance go, mylimasis? Have you given up already? I don’t even need my hands to hold you down. And here I was, looking at those guns you have, under the impression that you were supposed to be strong…” Hannibal breathes, the taunting smirk colouring his voice as he drags his short nails up the backs of Will’s thighs.  


He’s clearly trying to get Will to react. It’s just; it takes him a little while to get his body to cooperate when Hannibal’s getting all-rough with him. He’s all slowed down; it’s not his fault.

“You’re so into this, you haven’t even considered using your muscles, have you?”

Will lets out a soft grunt, and he tries to retrieve his arms, but Hannibal’s body is a barrier he can’t quite get past. The only thing he manages is to make himself a little frustrated due to his helplessness in this position.

Then, as suddenly as Hannibal had pressed in close behind him, his warmth is gone, save from both his hands grabbing at his wrists and pulling them back down in a vice grip. “Come on, show me what you’ve got,” Hannibal says dryly, tugging him back forcefully from the wall.

Will first staggers back, not expecting this behaviour and not entirely sure where he’s trying to take him, and he tries to put up a fight to regain control of his arms. When he can’t squirm out of his grip, he twists his entire body – and lays eyes on, oh, leather. Across Hannibal’s chest. Over a shoulder, under the other, and a steel buckle that looks very solid and kind of intimidating. His mouth goes dry.

Hannibal uses the break in Will’s train of thought to slam him back into the wall and press a forearm to his clavicles, pinning him in place. He presses in and up, his face millimeters away from Will’s. When Will tries to close the distance, Hannibal pulls back, attuned to him as he is. “Fight back,” he instructs.  
So he does. He’s got his hands back, he’s got all the free space in the living room – he doesn’t care that he’s probably walking right into Hannibal’s plan. But he grabs both hips, and he has leverage from the wall behind his back to shove Hannibal off of him. He’s got leverage to push him and get the upper hand, and while Hannibal is having fun and not letting Will have his way easily, it’s not long before the scrabble of hands turns into Will’s fingers wrapping themselves around the leather strap on Hannibal’s chest, a leg slotted between Hannibal’s, and one hooking just behind his calf, so that when Hannibal tries to move away, he does nothing but make himself trip backwards on Will’s heel.

They end up on the floor in a loud thud, Will holding himself up with his hands on Hannibal’s chest. They’re ruffled, a little out of breath, and whereas he feels a little silly in nothing but a t-shirt and fitted underwear that is getting increasingly tighter, he can’t help but look the body beneath his up and down. It must be one of those things he didn’t know he needed until he saw it, but. Hannibal in a leather harness, in black pants that fit him like a glove, trapped under Will’s weight and obviously getting a rouse out of him on purpose. Will isn’t out of breath solely because of the physical exertion caused by their bouts of wrestling.  
“Is this what you were looking to get out of me?” He asks, panting.

In lieu of an answer, Hannibal lets a dark chuckle escape his lips, and grab handfuls of Will’s ass. “I always know how to get what I want from you,” without more context but the grinding of his hips up into Will’s, causing him to stifle a moan.

Will reciprocates, feeling increasingly desperate, and incredibly aroused. He feels Hannibal’s fingers dance on his skin and skirt up his shirt, dragging the fabric with him. His intent is clear, so he lifts his arms to help him undress him, and momentarily forgets that he should be on his guard; Hannibal catches him in the net he’s cast, then, and uses Will’s distraction without missing a beat to flip them around viciously, landing Will brutally on his back and settling between Will’s open knees. The thin fabric of Will’s boxers isn’t much to shield his obvious arousal from the friction of their roughhousing and he can’t help bucking up into Hannibal. When he tries to get his hands on Hannibal’s warm skin, he gets caught back and his wrists end up violently pinned against the floor. Hannibal isn’t playing fair at all and Will’s brain is conflicted between fighting him and protesting or letting him win and giving himself over. Both options have too many benefits to rationally pick.

“Oh, no, mylimasis. These aren’t your rules and you won’t get what you want, not today,” Hannibal says with venom on his tongue, sending a shiver straight down Will’s spine. He’s maybe a little too into being manhandled. And denied. It’s fucking hot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shh, my darling, don’t worry, I’m far from being done with you,” Hannibal says, his voice so low and rough, the voice that affects Will the most. Can’t be by chance – he’s gotta be using it on purpose to keep his boy on edge. “Remember what I said I was going to do to you? Do you remember that, William? I said I’d see how much I can fit inside you, so be a good boy for me and you’ll get what you want if I decide that you deserve it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end! It is an 8k chapter as a lot happens! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the boys discovering new kinks and having sweet conversations.
> 
> Thank you SO much for reading, commenting and leaving kudos <3

Hannibal manages to pull Will’s hands back to his stomach, and traps them both with one hand; he leans over and Will is trapped under his weight, and he can’t do anything but look while Hannibal reaches over to the nearest table within reach to retrieve – Will blinks hard – the bondage belt they’d gotten at the store, what now feels like eons ago. Fighting Hannibal is becoming harder and it has left the forefront of his brain, so when Hannibal quickly wraps it around his wrists, Will doesn’t think of struggling. He could probably squirm out of it, it’s not expertly tied and it's not like the belt really could be used as cuffs. But the intent is clearly there, so whereas that might not be enough to send Will flying out of his skin, it’s enough to make him want more. He relaxes into the feeling, until Hannibal gets up on his knees to remove his own belt from the loops in his pants. He pulls Will’s hands to get his shoulders off the floor, and it’s not comfortable but Will holds position when Hannibal orders him to stay, just long enough to slide his belt under Will’s shoulder blades. He pushes Will back down and he closes his eyes when Hannibal closes the buckle around him, trapping his elbows tight by his sides. Will has a fleeting thought for the fact that they kind of match each other now, what with the leather bands going across both of their chests. He kind of really likes the thought.  


He’s taken out of his clouded thoughts when Hannibal frees his wrists and pulls Will up by the belt, and Will has to follow his lead. Hannibal repeats the same steps, sliding the bondage belt he’d gotten from Will down to the small of his back, and Will lets him when he secures the strap tightly around him, trapping his wrists firmly on either sides of his hips. Will can’t move. He doesn’t want to. Hannibal gets off of him and Will can’t tear his eyes away from his body, he just looks so ridiculously good and he’s not sure why Hannibal has waited so long to show him this outfit. He figures they can talk about it later. Hannibal goes off to the desk he’s pushed aside and Will can’t make out what he gets from his position on the floor, and he’s unable to do more than undignified wiggling so he doesn’t try, but he’s putting something in his back pocket so Will can only imagine he’ll know sooner rather than later. When Hannibal comes back, it’s with a ravenous stare down Will’s whole body, a quiet “You’re so pretty when I tie you up,” and the muted thud of Hannibal’s knees on the wooden panels by his feet.  
Hannibal takes his time, starts with picking up one of Will’s legs to press kisses on his ankle, up his calf, bite marks on the inside of his thigh, and all Will can do is watch and whimper. His hips twitch when Hannibal’s teeth sink into a particularly tender muscle, but either to press in the bite or away from it, Will can’t tell. He’s not sure that it matters. When Hannibal makes it all the way to his underwear, he grabs the fabric tightly between his teeth, slides his hands up under Will’s ass and drags the garment off of Will, who maybe has never felt this vulnerable and this wanted before. It’s intoxicating. His head hits the floor with a muted thump.  


The respite doesn’t last long, though. Will hears what sounds like a bottle cap and smells solvents just long enough to snap his eyes open before something cold touches his chest. He looks down to see Hannibal’s face consumed with intent and a hunger that wasn’t there seconds prior. He sees the distinct pale grey plastic of a permanent marker and the straight lines that Hannibal is drawing on him, without being able to make out what it is, but it sends a rush down his spine, to be marked by Hannibal in this way. He’s transfixed on the look in Hannibal’s eyes, until his left hand has etched across the whole of Will’s pecs, from one side to the next.  


“So that you don’t forget, handsome,” Hannibal purrs, and Will cranes his neck as best he can.  


Four large letters, traced a few times over, are inking his chest. M I N E, in bold, black script, and Hannibal’s free hand reaches to take a nipple tightly, to pinch and to twist and to make Will arch up into the touch.  


“Can’t have you forgetting who you belong to, can we?” Hannibal asks rhetorically while he pulls. It’s not like Will can find the words to answer, so he just gasps at the pressure on his sensitive flesh instead. “And who would that be, pretty thing?” Hannibal says, eyes burning into Will’s.  
“You. Yours, Hannibal, I’m yours,” Will replies, and he feels the warmth spreading through him, the need coursing through his veins and the arousal of knowing he’s right coiling deep inside him.  
He’s having a hard time keeping still. Especially with Hannibal writing more on his stomach, filling up the spaces not covered by the belts, spelling out PRETTY THING and FUCK TOY and GOOD BOY.  


BITE ME on his thighs.  


A simple LECTOR’S curling right around his cock and he chases the touch he’s not getting. Hannibal’ dexterous. He doesn’t give in. He doesn’t touch Will.  


“Hannibal, Hannibal please,” Will whispers, although he couldn’t tell what he’s begging for. He just needs.  


“Shhh, handsome, you look so good like this,” Hannibal says, wide eyed and rough voiced.  
Time seems to stand still then, because Hannibal moves on to his collarbones and Will can’t see what he’s doing. He can’t see how he’s being marked and it’s driving him a little mad. Hannibal bends down to lick a stripe up his neck, making Will shudder beneath him.  


“If anyone sees you right now, they’ll know what to do, mylimasis,” he whispers against his ear. “You’re mine to play with, you’re my toy and you've got instructions on your skin and I’ll take what I need and I’ll use you to my satisfaction and you’ll be happy with that, won’t you?”  


Will’s brows furrow, and he’s nodding desperately, biting his lip. He’s not sure what it says about him that he always gets so deep inside the spaces that Hannibal creates inside his head, without even any proper touch, but all he knows is that he’s willing to do a lot to please him and if that includes being covered in the ink that Hannibal puts on him, then so fucking be it.  


“I think I’ll follow my instructions, mylimasis, what do you think?” Hannibal says, but before Will can really wonder what he means, he pulls away and his hands close around Will’s exposed neck. Will’s eyes, though he must make a conscious effort to keep them open, strain to hold Hannibal’s gaze. “It says choke here on your throat, my love,” Hannibal continues and Will has to close his eyes at that. His blood is pounding, he can feel the veins pulsing under Hannibal’s fingers but not being able to send the circulation past the pressure around his neck. Will is strangely calm, even when his lungs start burning and he can tell that his face is turning a deep shade of crimson. He would normally care, but he doesn’t want to waste energy thinking about anything other than the feeling of Hannibal’s belts around his body and Hannibal’s hands on his neck.  


When Hannibal lets go, Will gasps loudly, by reflex. The red spike in his lungs had been trying to get him to care about the lack of oxygen, but the weight of Hannibal straddling him and the pressure of his fingers around his airways were much more interesting to him. Hannibal bends down, his face hovering a mere inch from Will’s, just to see him lose the ability to train his irises on Hannibal’s with the loss of his ability to breathe.  


“Don’t stop looking at me, William, I want to see you,” Hannibal whispers, voice so full of lust. “I want to see the blue of your eyes to compare with the blue of your lips,” he says.  


The visceral need to please Hannibal is battling with the heaviness in his eyelids, but he tries, he tries, he tries. He wants. And the noises he makes are more desperate every time, because past the panting and the gasping for air, Will also lets out a few moans. A few pleads for Hannibal, although he couldn’t voice what he’s asking for. He feels so much, he feels more at peace than ever, he feels as strung out as the string of a bow when it's being pulled back, as free as the arrow that’s about to take flight, and his skin feels prickling with electricity, he’s alive. He’s so alive.  


He barely feels it when Hannibal leans down, presses closer to Will’s skin, instead of speaking up to make Will realise he’s back inside his head, to drag the tip of his tongue on Will’s bottom lip. His eyes snap open when Hannibal takes hold of it between his teeth and bites down sharp, he makes a strangled noise, because Hannibal’s hands are tight around him – he’s only been releasing the pressure periodically to let Will’s lungs refill with clean oxygen. The second he relaxes his vice grip, though, Will can feel a tear threatening to spill out of the far corner of his eye, and a soft “Oh, please,” escapes his mouth.  


Hannibal finally kisses him, while he’s being choked one last time. Will can hardly reciprocate when Hannibal is holding him like this. When he pulls back, Will can’t follow, because Hannibal has taken hold of the belts holding Will tightly. He’s moving off of his straddling position, and the contrast of the cold air next to the warmth of Hannibal’s thighs is enough to have him erupt in goosebumps. Hannibal kneels next to him and yanks at the belts, solid and real around Will’s arms, and shoves his body roughly about until Will’s chest is flat against the floor. He moans when his cock gets trapped between himself and the cold floor, it’s not great but it’s something and Will is far enough gone inside his head that he will take anything. He feels Hannibal’s short fingernails dig into the soft flesh of his ass and pushes back into it, stills when he feels the cold tip of the marker on his skin.  


A word on each cheek. Something on the small of his back. Will can’t see, and he can’t even try twisting, but he wants to know, he needs to know, so despite the calm in his brain he thrashes a little in his bonds until Hannibal’s hand connects, hard, with his ass. The reverberated sound stuns him and he whimpers.  
“Oh sorry, did that come as a surprise? Not my fault, mylimasis, your ass says SPANK HERE,” Hannibal explains nonchalantly, as if that explained everything, as if he hadn’t written that himself.  


Will doesn’t bother replying. He rests his forehead on the cold floor and pushes his ass up as best he can, tries to make himself inviting. It seems only logical, now, that losing his wrestling match with Hannibal would be followed with this consequence, and if Hannibal’s game plan is to give Will’s ass a thorough beating, Will is undeniably here for it. Hannibal rubs what must show as a vivid handprint on his skin, if Will knows himself at all. The force of the blow and the sting that he felt are definitely indicative of a beautifully delimited rush of blood to the surface of his skin.  


“What do you want, handsome?” Hannibal asks. Will groans.  


He doesn’t know how to answer that because so many options are rushing to the forefront of his brain and answering that makes Will feel like he has to make a choice. Will doesn’t like making choices. Will likes giving up all of his options and offering all of the choices like jewels on a velvet cushion lined with golden tassels. He doesn’t want to have to pick which gem he prefers. So he gulps for an answer, he pants shorts puffs of warm air.  


“Come on, darling. Tell me what you want,” Hannibal says this time, more impatient. His fingers are digging deep into the muscle of Will’s ass.  
Will thinks of Hannibal’s hands on him. Or Hannibal’s implements. Being spanked, or being flogged, he thinks of how much he loves the way Hannibal looks at him when his skin is a colour palette of his making, every cell of his body vibrating with a bottomless hunger. He thinks of how much he hates when Hannibal spends hours stringing his body along, continuously edging him but preventing him from the release he so desperately needs. He hates that he will always welcome Hannibal taking over his body, and mind until he’s besides himself with want and need and despair. He hates that he loves it so much. His cock twitches at the thought of being so helpless in Hannibal’s hands. He thinks of being at Hannibal’s mercy, Hannibal penetrating him, making him feel so good, he thinks of the incredible white noise that fills his every neuron when Hannibal uses his body like just some other object with which to pleasure himself, he thinks of Hannibal ever so slowly prepping Will’s body for a thorough fucking, he thinks of the opposite when Hannibal barely prepares him for the stretch, how the dull ache mutates to pleasure gradually until he’s wanton with arousal. He thinks of the multiplicity of ways he’s catalogued of Hannibal being unbearably mean to him, Hannibal ignoring him, Hannibal making him wait, Hannibal overstimulating him, Hannibal pleasuring himself and not letting Will touch, or taste, Hannibal making him cry because he likes the brightness of Will’s irises when he does, Hannibal humiliating him when Will is so eager to be used because all he wants is to make his lover feel good, because if Hannibal feels good Will will too.  
And through all of that, no word makes it past Will’s lips, no whine turns to syllables, to words, to phrases. To choices. Will wants it all at once.  


“I’ve got patience, William. I can stay here all day waiting for you to tell me. I know what you want, I know what you need, but I can’t give it to you if you can’t ask for it, gorgeous.”  


“I, – I want to feel you, please?” Will croaks out.  


“How are you not feeling this?” Hannibal retorts, fingertips turning into short nails dragging on his sensitive skin.  
Will huffs. This isn’t fair, Hannibal asked and he answered, Hannibal knows he isn’t good with words. He takes a few deep breaths, willing the words to come out from where they’re trapped on his tongue. I want you inside me, that’s only five words, it’s easy. Should be easy. Subject-verb-object. Or maybe the opposite, I as the object to Hannibal’s subjectivities. Who knows.  


It isn’t easy.  


He breathes in. Out. Hannibal is still kneading, keeping Will from forming coherent sentences. Then stills, and somehow that doesn’t help.  
Until Hannibal’s fingertips drag inwards, to his cleft. To the plug he’s still wearing. And Will is strung out enough that the barest of movements send fireworks through his spine.  


Will lets out a shaky breath when Hannibal takes hold of the base of his plug and starts shifting it, rotating it inside him, rubbing ever so deliciously against his prostate with every twist, the breaths turn to quiet moans. He pushes back into the contact.  
Hannibal chuckles. Pushes Will’s hips back down, gentle but firm. “Such a good boy, aren’t you? But I’m still waiting for an answer, why didn’t you say this is what you wanted?”  


Will still his hips, blushes. He did, he tried. It’s not his fault words are so heavy. Hannibal doesn’t move until he’s immobile, until every muscle in his body is on hold. Until Will can get his breathing evened out.  


“There it is, you’re so good for me. Stay still, pretty thing, good things come to those who wait.”  
Hannibal pulls on the base, almost enough to remove it, but every time it catches on Will’s tight rim, just before Will can relax and let it get past, the pressure is gone and the plug goes right back in. The torment is exquisite, and Will doesn’t care that the floor is cold and hard and unforgiving under his face and his torso, he can’t keep still for this. Hannibal never has enough of teasing him. It’s not long before he starts wanting more. He wants so much more. He wants everything.  
“Why so tight?” Hannibal teases. “God, look at you. I stretched you earlier, William, was I not good enough for you?”  


Will makes an indignant noise. That was hours ago, it could have been decades ago if you asked him, he’d gone out and come back, of course he isn’t as pliant as he was! He had to wait before he could even dream of putting his underwear on before he left, thinking as he’d been that Hannibal was about to take him apart, not send him out, he was very much in a predicament and wouldn’t have been responsible if a wet spot had appeared on the front of his trousers. So he waited until he was down enough to act normally, to walk decently without his cock filling out at an embarrassing rate in a store aisle. At checkout. On the way back home, waiting at the stoplight, crossing the street.  


“Hannibal, please, please,” Will begs. This early on. He can’t remember how to speak in any way other than pleading.  


“What do you want, handsome?” Hannibal asks, and Will isn’t about to lose the stimulation again.  
“Y-your hand – I want your fingers, please Hannibal,” his voice dripping with need. “I want you inside me,” he lets out breathily, finally letting the thought out in the open, out for Hannibal to see for himself.  


Will doesn’t expect the hand that slips up his body, curls around his shoulder and his throat and his chin, and past his lips, into the warm and wet heat of his mouth. He sucks on the intruding digits almost instantly, before he realises that Hannibal is playing him better than he could any instrument. This isn’t what he meant, come on, Hannibal, god, but now Will can’t speak to rectify. What would he even say, no, no, not my mouth, fuck me? Will’s never refused Hannibal’s fingers in his mouth. He knows full well that if it took this much work to get I want you inside me past his lips, all requests in the fuck me register might take light years.  


Hannibal is resting most of his weight on Will, his free hand still pushing and pulling and twisting and shifting the plug inside him, so Will moans loudly around the solid weight of Hannibal’s fingers. That he can't help. Then Hannibal pulls back, not without dragging Will’s spit all over his chin and down the side of his neck. He grabs a more solid hold on the plug, and steadily, steadily he pulls it out, until Will gives and arches his back and the plug pops out of him. The feeling, god, the stretch is so intense because Will’s worn it for hours but the stem is so small that he isn’t accustomed to the size of the bulb anymore, and god he would be lying if he said it didn’t feel wonderful. Without a break, though, he feels Hannibal’s fingers replace the solid weight of the steel. Slick, dexterous, skilled fingers who know exactly just how to take him apart. He makes a contented noise. He doesn’t care to know when Hannibal got the lube without Will noticing because Hannibal’s fingers feel so fucking good inside him that Will could cry. Hannibal could keep him like this for the rest of forever and he’d thank him, probably. He’s unwinding Will with every push and pull and if it were possible for bones to go liquid, Will would have melted into a puddle by now. Will’s maybe never felt this pliant, what with the belts so snugly fit around his body and Hannibal just, slowly, slowly, so slowly exploring inside him like he doesn’t know Will’s body like the back of his hand already.  


“Look at you, darling, all tied up and eager, is this what you wanted?” Hannibal asks.  


Will can’t formulate words, he’s lost his tongue and his vocal chords aren’t cooperating, but he rolls his hips against Hannibal just to encourage him to keep moving. This is so goddamn good.  


“I wonder, William,” Hannibal starts nonchalantly, like he’s not knuckle deep into his boy, like he’s not rubbing just that much against his prostate with every drag, like he’s not causing Will to create a dripping mess on the hardwood panels. “How much do you think you can take, if I do this nice and slow? How many fingers do you think I can get inside you before you beg? I wonder what you’ll beg for. More or mercy, my pretty little toy, what do you think?”  


“More,” Will says, a whisper that is as much an answer as it is a plead. You know I’ll always beg for more, he thinks. Doesn’t say that.  


Hannibal pulls out, Will almost wails, until he feels a cool line of lube being painted down his cleft, until Hannibal comes back – still with two fingers, but smearing it around, stretching Will slowly, scissoring his fingers and spreading Will open on every way out. Hannibal is working so slowly, he’s so thorough to prepare Will and stretch him open just right, Will can’t help arching his body to give Hannibal a better angle.  


“You’re opening up so nicely for me, handsome, look at you,” Hannibal praises him. “Just because you can’t say what you want doesn’t mean you don’t want it, does it?”  


When he pulls out, this time, Hannibal does so completely, but when he comes back with three fingers, he lets out an obscene moan, as if he was the one on the receiving end, and Will feels the warmth that it sends spreading through his entire torso. Hearing Hannibal vocalise the pleasure he’s getting from fingering Will open is something Will never knew he needed, and it sends white hot need through his spine and straight down to his neglected cock. It’s a wire straight through him and he’s never needed to hear anything as much as he needs that sound from Hannibal again. He hears the distinctive sound of a zipper being pulled down.  
“If I can fit this much in with so little effort imagine what I'll get in you by the time I'm done.”  


Will feels the warm and solid weight of a torso flush against his back. When he feels a wonderful pressure against his prostate, Will’s breathing hitches, he doesn’t want to focus on air if he can focus on how fucking good those fingers feel inside him. “Ah, ah, no, mylimasis, breathe for me.”  


That shouldn’t have been so hard to obey.  


The stimulation stops until Will’s lungs start functioning again, save for a free hand lightly running up and down his ribcage. When Will gains minute control over his body again, or at least enough to listen to the orders, the rhythm of the fingers inside his ass starts matching the patterns of expansion of his chest. Out when he inhales. In when he exhales. Not putting sufficient care into his breathing means not getting pleasure. This is a whole new aspect of breathplay Will had never considered. It’s an excruciatingly effective way of controlling his body.  


“Good boy, you’re doing so well, darling,” a hushed whisper into his ear.  


They’re quiet for a moment, just long enough for Will to start feeling desperate, save for the sounds making it out of his throat. He knows he’s making a mess on the floor, he can feel it, his helpless squirming is spreading the wetness leaking from his cock all over the varnished wood, all over his stomach. He’s slowly rocking, chasing the touch he wants and fucking himself on the fingers milking and stretching him, beautiful and long and agile fingers that are so attuned to his pleasure, they fill him up so well.  


The noises are spilling from him freely now, and he knows he’s ramping up steadily to a toe-numbing orgasm. Quick, breathless “ah, ah, ah” sounds rolling on his tongue until they’re past his lips. With the right flick and pressure, he lets out deeper, wanton moans, dripping with pure lust. When a harder thrust feels particularly good, Will almost whines, he keens, high pitched at the back of his throat. He starts thrusting back on the pushes, needing so much more than what he’s getting. He’s got three fingers stretching him open, slick and strong fingers, rubbing against his prostate so well, Will doesn’t care that his knees, his shoulders and his face are starting to protest at his prostrated position on the floor, skin directly against the unforgiving wood. He feels the higher belt by his elbows being yanked back as he does, and now he’s getting shoved down onto the three digits penetrating him, he’s getting so thoroughly fucked, he’s so lost in his pleasure, he is flying away, nothing matters outside of this moment. He’s rocking back as much as he can, riding those fingers. He can’t get enough.  


“Oh, oh, please,” he begs with a shaking voice.  


“Please what, handsome?”  


“Please, Sir, oh please,” Will replies, choking back a sob, every syllable in time with the rhythm of the fingers stroking his prostate so fucking good.  
There’s a slight hitch in the movement while the warm body behind Will bends down to rest flush against him and he gets teeth sinking into the flesh of his shoulder. A muffled moan. “Oh, well when you ask so nicely, don't worry handsome I'll take care of you.” The low rumble of exertion and arousal in his voice are filling Will’s head with white noise.  


The few neurons that aren’t drowning in the waves of pleasure crashing against all the right parts of Will’s brain are chanting more, more, more in unison. He distantly remembers Hannibal wondering out loud how much Will’s ass could take, and as much as Will just wants to come – and he does, oh god does he want to come and do so now –, he also wants to be good and be patient and wait and find out just how many fingers can fit inside him. Besides, it’s not like he’d been told he could come, but oh god, he hopes he can, because he needs to so fucking bad, but his brain counters every wish for an orgasm with “Sir hasn’t given you permission,” or “be patient, handsome,” in his voice. So as much as there’s less and less free space in his brain for Will to think of anything that isn’t how fucking great his body will feel when he lets his orgasm wash over him, Will knows he isn’t allowed, so he focuses as best he can on rocking back and fucking himself thoroughly on Hannibal’s fingers.  
After what feels like hours, Will feels Hannibal slowing down a little, but he can’t seem to find his voice to ask why, Hannibal, to ask what’s going on. Hannibal is pulling back from him and Will lets out a choked sob, he’s not ready for him to stop, he’s so not ready to have to go on without his Sir pleasuring him, without having had the chance to release, so all he can do is to let a keening moan past his lips and hope that Hannibal hears the pleas.  


“Shh, my darling, don’t worry, I’m far from being done with you,” Hannibal says, his voice so low and rough, the voice that affects Will the most. Can’t be by chance – he’s gotta be using it on purpose to keep his boy on edge. “Remember what I said I was going to do to you? Do you remember that, William? I said I’d see how much I can fit inside you, so be a good boy for me and you’ll get what you want if I decide that you deserve it.”  


With that, Will feels warm fingertips teasing at his rim again. When he goes in, though. Oh fuck, oh, fuck. Will can feel both palms resting on his ass cheeks, spreading them open. Angled in a way that Hannibal’s fingers are pointing inwards, teasing his cleft, circling him. He can feel two of Hannibal’s fingers back inside him, one from each hand, before they’re joined by a third, and, and, a fourth? And they’re working wonders, he’s feeling so good, and Hannibal’s goal is clear, he’s working relentlessly to make sure Will is stretched and open and Will’s never felt this much on display. He’s got Hannibal entirely focused on him, and that’s a lot. Christ, he’s being effectively pulled open, and if Will can trust the sensations that his body is relaying to his brain, the only way this can work is if Hannibal is using a few fingers from both hands to work him open, and that image on its own is worth more than Will ever thought he deserved. He’s stopped caring about the mess he’s making a long time ago, he can’t care about that when he’s got both of Hannibal’s hands prying him open.  


Hannibal keeps working on him like this for what feels like years, stretching and pulling and relaxing his rim, and Will feels like he’s about to explode, but he’s also never wanted for something to last more than this. His skin is starting to protest, the floor isn’t exactly comfortable, but relocating is the last thing he wants. He can barely register what Hannibal is doing to him anymore, and he’s stopped trying to keep track of his movements.  


When Hannibal slows down, and pulls out, both hands, Will breaks. “Oh, no, please don’t stop, please Hannibal, don’t,” he pleads.  


“Please don't stop? You’re a greedy boy, now, aren't you…” Hannibal says, and he sounds just a little distracted by Will’s body, in the best way. “You’re so open right now, so hot and slick for me, begging for my hand, isn’t that right?”  


Will nods as best he can. He can feel more lube, he’s feeling so wet for Hannibal, and that’s sending tingles down his spine because he doesn’t know what Hannibal could possibly have left in store for him. He almost cries out when one hand is back, two, maybe three fingers inside him again, and Hannibal starts rhythmically stroking the sweetest of spots, causing Will to dissolve in pleas that are oh so close to begging for the release he doesn’t know if he will be granted.  
“Is this what you want, William? I can’t hear you,” Hannibal teases, setting up a new speed that might make Will lose his mind at last, but the overstimulation feels so good, he’d be a fool to want it to stop even though he’s leaking everywhere underneath himself. “What do you want, handsome?”  


“This, Hannibal, please keep going, I’m so close,” he pants hard against the hardwood.  


Hannibal, after that, doesn’t speak. He pushes inside Will, though, and the last bit of extra lube he added finally makes sense, because Will unmistakably feels the rough edge of Hannibal’s knuckles stretching the sensitive and overworked ring of muscle of his entrance. He’s too stunned to think properly. He’s too shocked to even sob; the only sound coming out of them, when Will realises what’s happening, are the staggered gasp from the air catching in Will’s throat, and a low, breathy moan from Hannibal. Time is standing still between them. Will’s head fills with a deafening silence, suddenly the feeling of being so on edge is far from the forefront of his consciousness. Everything is suspended. He can’t wrap his head around, around, whatever this is, he doesn’t seem to be able to compute the image he’s presented with, almost as if out of his body, of himself on the floor, motionless for the most part, with Hannibal kneeling behind him and most of his hand penetrating him – most of his hand. This feels like so much, physically, emotionally, and Will doesn’t know what to do with the information that this is really happening. The eye of the hurricane, everything is still, and so calm, so peaceful here. So perfect. Everything could be crashing around them, there’s gotta be a path of destruction, but they’re safe within the walls they’ve built, so Will breathes.  


Until Hannibal moves.  


And the world starts spinning again. The waves and the strong gusts of wind and Will’s flying away, with only Hannibal to keep him grounded and make sure he’s never going to be lost to the ocean. Everything is moving again, the universe is tumbling down, and Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal, perfect and warm and solid and his beautiful hand inside Will, and the thumb that isn’t in him just rubbing so good at the seam that goes across his perineum, and the stretch is so divine, his fingers know just how to make Will fall apart, every time, there exists no instrument in this world that Hannibal knows better than that of Will’s body.  


Will whispers. Please, Hannibal, quiet inside his head. He wants to let go of the tension and the need and he’s so desperate. “Hannibal,” soft, spoken amongst the storm inside him, threatening to crush his bones and break his resolve any moment now.  


“I haven't even told you if you can come, have I? Well I don't think you really have a choice. With the mess you've made I bet you are so close. Be a good boy and give in, Will,” Hannibal instructs, just as calmly, the contrast with how Will is feeling so obvious, so strong. He hears faint, slick sounds, Hannibal’s free hand moving on himself.  


Will has been riding this high, this pressure for so long, he’s been so mindless with pleasure that he doesn’t know anymore, he can’t tell when and where his orgasm starts and stops, all he knows is that he’s maybe never felt this good before, and he wants to remember this moment forever. The climax is so intense, he can't make heads or tails about what's happening to him, he’s never felt anything this wholly and intimately before, and maybe never will again, but that’s okay, because he’s here now and he’s with Hannibal and he can’t move, couldn’t even if he wanted to, with the bands around his body and the warmth of Hannibal’s body right there, so close. 

Will’s lost in his mind and he’s hypnotised by the endless lightning bolts connecting throughout his entire being.  
He barely takes notice, when Hannibal stimulates him slowly through the endorphin rush, when he slows down, dead slow, and eventually stops. Eventually slides out. A whimper, maybe his. The storm is quieting, it’s continuing elsewhere, leaving nothing but calm in her wake. He barely realises when his hips are pulled upwards, back a little. Will is on his knees, but he doesn't care that he’s awkward and not very comfortable on his face and shoulders; Hannibal wants him, and he wants him like this. Hannibal’s slick fingers are between his thighs, spreading the wetness around. When they’re replaced by the heavy warmth of his erection, fucking the space between his legs, occasionally dragging against the over sensitised skin of his softening cock, Will starts pleading, for Hannibal’s release this time. He wants to be as good for Hannibal as he is for Will; he needs to reciprocate, to give himself up for Hannibal, so that hopefully Hannibal feels a fraction of how good Will feels right now. So he tries to meet him halfway on every thrust, he listens for when he moves in a particularly good way that makes Hannibal’s moans almost carnal, so that he can provide him with that pleasure over and over. Hannibal’s hands spasm on Will’s hips, and when he gets close, he falls flush against Will’s back, and Will tries to spur him on. “Please, Hannibal, I want to make you feel good, please let it go, please come, I want it, please let me feel you, I want to feel it,” Will begs, frantically working to find Hannibal’s release as hard as he would his own.  


When Hannibal spills, it’s with his teeth in Will’s shoulder, his breath hot against his skin, his fingernails fixed in Will’s hips, and the warmth of his release, Will can feel, only adding to the mess before Will’s body. It makes him shiver with the pride of having provided Hannibal with what he needed from him. Having let Hannibal take what he wanted from Will. There is maybe no better feeling in Will’s universe, and for long minutes, all they can hear are the pants coming out of both of them, after Hannibal has tugged Will to the side and they’re both laying on the floor, recuperating. Will has Hannibal’s arm as a pillow and everything is right in the world.  
Eventually, though, the spirits are cooling down; their heart rates, both working overtime, are starting to settle, and so are their breaths. Will feels Hannibal’s free hand scourging about for the buckles of the belts that were still holding him captive, and as much as Will doesn’t really want them off, he’s starting to be a little bit chilly. He doesn’t want to move, but he knows anywhere but the floor would be more comfortable, in the long run. Warmer. Softer. But he’s got Hannibal’s lips at the top of his spine and his arms around him so he doesn’t want to care about a cold floor or the mess sticking to his skin.  


“Let’s clean you up, mylimasis, what do you think?” Hannibal asks, disturbing the quiet surrounding them. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll need you to get up, though, unless you need me to carry you,” he adds, running his hand up and down Will’s newly freed arm. “Can you do that for me, handsome?”  


Will can, he will, he just. He needs another moment or two. He’s having a hard time getting his body to respond to him. Everything feels so heavy, every limb too weighted, every muscle too tired. His veins might as well be filled with lead. That’s just the effect Hannibal has on him. He needs a few more minutes to get his body moving, getting up, flexing. Hannibal leads him to the shower, and Will could do it on his own, he can walk, still, but. The little attentions are always appreciated. Hannibal takes the time to wipe his body off before they get under the stream. It’s domestic. Will loves it. The feeling of all the steamy hot drops on his skin is wonderful and time just stands stills for them. Will’s thankful for the fact that Hannibal is scrubbing as softly as he can where the ink stained his skin. Probably wants it to stay as much as Will needs the reminders.  


Will’s still in a bit of a daze afterwards, when Hannibal finds him a nice shirt of the softest blend of cotton, some lounge shorts he can wear in the late August heat. They don’t go far, not out, really; Hannibal makes him some tea and leads him to the stoop, the nice porch by their front door that gives on the quiet street on which they live. They can hear the birds in the heavy air, Will thinks it must rain soon; but for now all is still peaceful and the weather feels like a hug from Mother Nature. He holds onto his mug and leans against Hannibal’s shoulder.  


Hannibal rubs his back while the tea steeps and cools enough for Will to drink it. “Thank you, mylimasis, for this,” Hannibal says, breaking their comfortable silence.  


Will looks up at him, eyebrows raised in question. He thinks he might always wonder why, might always feel like he should be the one thanking Hannibal, not the other way around.  


“You always make me so proud.” A kiss to his forehead; Hannibal continues. “There’s so many ways I can push you and you let me try all of them.” He’s quiet for a second, a few heartbeats. “And I mean… I think you’ll agree with me that taking my time to stretch you open and push that limit might have been one of the hottest things you’ve let me do to you, gorgeous,” he adds, pretending like they aren’t outside, like people might not hear them. Or maybe he doesn’t care.  
Will clears his throat, the way he knows Hannibal likes. “I, um. Yeah. That was…” He can feel himself blush. “That was great. That was really great,” he says softly, half out of always being shy about the things he enjoys, half because the setting gives him a reason to keep his voice low.  


He’s maybe a little too thankful for knowing he can’t or won’t get aroused again this soon, not in his secondary state, because, well. The vivid reminiscence that flashes in his brain is definitely making him feel some type of way.  


“You said something,” Hannibal says after that. “It made me very happy,” he adds.  


Will’s eyebrows frown just a tad. He doesn’t know where Hannibal is trying to go with this.  


“When you begged me for more.”  


It’s very rapid, after that, the way the Will’s brain processes the information and tries to scan his memories to find – and it finds – he feels his conscience stutter when he remembers. His eyes widen.  


“I, Hannibal –“ the words are hard to get out of his mouth. “I called you Sir. I called you… Sir. Didn’t I? Oh my god, I did, I called you –” he says, quickly, then shuts up. Hopefully he can blame the afternoon sun for the blood rushing to his face. He gulps. “Oh god, Hannibal. I’m sorry. I didn’t,” he starts, but he doesn’t know what he didn’t. He meant it, that he did. He knew it, somewhere. He liked it. There’s no denying how much he liked it, perhaps needed it, if his brain supplied it without a way for Will to stop running his mouth.  


“Will,” Hannibal says, and Will’s brain stops so that he can look at him. “It was a good surprise, mylimasis. You let it slip, didn’t you? I don’t mind, I liked it. A lot. It made me feel incredibly special.” Hannibal pauses for a second, and Will doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. “It’s okay if you didn’t necessarily mean to say that, I don’t have expectations. But I really… My beautiful boy was so entranced that he begged me in the most reverent way. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me.”  


The absolute fondness, the joy in Hannibal’s voice, the pride – Will could feed off on that alone for the rest of his life. He wants it, all the time, until he finds out if there is ever a point where he doesn’t starve for more of it. He doubts he’d ever get enough of the delight that colours Hannibal’s tone when Will does something he likes.  


He feels Hannibal’s fingertips, warmer than the air, somehow, tilt his head up and towards him. He feels his lips, soft but demanding, against his own. The soft scratch of his beard, that’s starting to grow again after he last shaved it. The palm splayed on his neck. He responds automatically, out of habit maybe, but he can’t be blamed when he maybe loves nothing more than the intimate moments he shares when they kiss.  


They only let go, abruptly, when the sound of shattering glass reaches their ears and Will realises, foolishly, that he’d completely forgotten about the tea that Hannibal had made for him. The tea that is now trickling down the stoop stairs, amongst the few fallen leaves and the sharp pieces of white porcelain from the teacup he’s just shattered on the crimson brick. Will stills in shock, but Hannibal captures his mouth again after pulling Will’s face back to his own.  
They pull away when Hannibal rests his forehead against Will’s. Without being unnecessarily heavy, the air between them feels thick, with promise and possibility, with euphoria and electricity.  


“Have you thought about that for long? Why today?” Hannibal asks, with a bluntness so characteristic.  


“I haven’t, not that I’m aware,” and Will realises the truth of it as he speaks it. “I don’t know why today. I think it just… happened, and it felt right, so it worked.” He’s quiet for a moment, the gears in his brain working. Part of him wants to know… it’s hard to admit, it’s big, even to himself, but he wants to know if he can say it again, when the time is right. He needs to know but his throat isn’t letting him ask.  


“Was it what we were doing? Was it the position? The location?” Will can tell that Hannibal is looking for more, maybe so that he can recreate that moment, or maybe he just wants to get a little further inside Will’s head. “Did something I did make you want to address me with it?”  


“No, Hannibal, I…” he tries. “I don’t know where it came from, but I – can I – can I use it again? When the time is right? Please, can it be a reoccurring thing? How did it make you feel?” Will’s words are fighting for a space and he’s trying to prevent them from all coming out at once.  


He realises he’d looked away when Hannibal’s fingertips softly turn his head so that he can look at him.  


“Yeah. Yes, mylimasis you can,” Hannibal responds fondly. “Have you used that honorific with anybody else?” He inquires. “Not a bad thing – I’m just curious.”  


“No, god no,” Will replies, almost horrified at the thought of giving this title – Hannibal’s title – to somebody else. At the thought that he’d use something anything but free of baggage for Hannibal, at the thought of calling him what had previously belonged to somebody else. “I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t do that to you,” he says softly, and kisses Hannibal of his own volition this time.  


“I’m honoured,” Hannibal pants when they part. “I’ll do my best to make sure I deserve you calling me that, handsome, everyday if I can. I’ll live up to your expectations. I’m proud of you, and I’m proud that you feel safe enough to retreat far enough into your head when you’re with me. Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it, but it’s all I got, so you’ll have to forgive me for not having better words for you in this moment. I’m proud to have the permission to call you mine, my good boy – isn’t that what you are – and I’m proud to be yours,” he concludes. They breathe. “Your Sir,” Hannibal adds after a few seconds of quiet.  


Will thinks this might be all they ever need. The space to allow each other in, to let each other dive into the other’s ribcage and crack it open and replace the marrow with stardust and the bones with vines, they each have planted a garden deep into each other’s core where they can watch everything grow from inside their reciprocal wells. He can’t wait to see the flower bloom from Hannibal’s lungs and the roots take deep into his heart so that wisdom always has a place to call home.  


And if Will’s feet never touch the ground again, if he’s forever destined to fly, to soar ever so higher, and to keep his head in the clouds that Hannibal has placed around him, well.  


That’s enough. It’s so much more than enough. It’s everything he never knew he needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Any feedback is welcome. All mistakes are mine.


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